


No Grace to Fall From

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Blasphemy, Bullying, Depression, Drug Abuse, Gen, Homophobia, Religious Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A take on Simon’s previous life, where friendship and love weren’t enough to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Grace to Fall From

_"He’s a sullen kid, your lad."_

_"Aye, but he’s a sweetheart."_

Simon knew from an early age that something wasn’t right about him. It wasn’t that he knew what was wrong, just that there were plenty of adults around happy to tell his parents that he was strange, and they didn’t have the good graces to say it behind his back. He’d hear about which kids had been fighting, which kids were going to grow up to be knockouts or charmers, and then he’d hear about himself.

And apparently he was bright, slow-witted, strange, and sad.

Part of him felt like he ought to try and change that, but the rest of him was more interested in hiding in bushes or trying to spot birds in the trees, walking up as quietly and slowly as he could, keeping his eyes fixed on the leaves for movement.

For the most part his mum would let him do what he pleased in the park, but every once in a while she would give him a nudge to go play football with the other boys.

"Have some normal fun for a change," she teased, smiling brightly, and he would force a smile back before hovering around the edges of the game, waiting for an invitation.

They usually allowed him to play, given he was a decent enough goalie, but he was always a touch relieved when they said they had no room for him and he could just shrug at his mum before heading back into the bushes.

 

Simon was six when he first got sent home from school with a note for his parents stating that he’d kicked Colin during playtime in the yard.

It didn’t say that he’d kicked Colin for frying ants with a magnifying glass. He’d wondered what was so interesting about the dirt patch by the fence and found Colin laughing as he chased after the ants with his magnifying glass.

Simon knew it was killing them and asked Colin to stop. Colin didn’t, so Simon kicked him.

By the time he got home and handed the note to his mum, Simon wasn’t really sure why he’d been so upset that he’d decided to kick Colin, just that he’d felt through and through it had been wrong to kill those ants - that it was unnecessary cruelty and he had to stop it, no matter what.

His mum shook her head after reading the note, looking at him with disappointment, and Simon hated that expression on her face. He hated that he’d made her look that way, all because of a cruel boy and some ants. Simon promised her and himself he’d never do it again, and his stomach dropped when she nodded instead of smiling. He didn’t know if she believed him.

 

Simon managed to avoid getting in trouble again until he’d nearly left primary school, aside from a few scoldings for being late with homework or slow to finish classwork. He didn’t feel any shame over it; he knew he was in the right, even when the teacher told him off in front of the whole classroom.

It was the teacher’s fault. And the fault of everyone else in the classroom, except for the person he had been standing up for.

Michelle had been picked to sing in front of the class during a music lesson, and people had started laughing at her for it. Simon liked Michelle’s voice, always kept an ear out for her during hymn practice, because it was clear and sweet and gentle, and he could ignore a snicker or two, but not a laugh that spread around the classroom.

He told the class “Shut up”, and they laughed harder.

He thought about what his dad had yelled at the drunks laughing outside their house after ten on a school night, and told the class to “Fuck off”.

He wouldn’t apologise, and spent a whole week in detention for it.

It felt worthwhile.

 

Simon was thirteen the first time he thought he might be going to Hell.

The priest was tired of telling Simon how to correct his hand position every time he went to receive communion, and physically took his hands to place them in the correct position.

Simon started screaming.

Even as he screamed he knew he wasn’t meant to - knew he was scaring people, scaring the priest, scaring himself - but he’d never liked being touched without some sort of warning first, and he’d panicked.

People looked at him differently after that, even if nobody would flat out accuse him of being possessed. They’d always treated him as some strange and sad thing, like a dog with a missing leg, but now they looked at him as if he frightened them.

One of the rougher crowds at school approached him in the yard the Monday after that particular incident, and Simon had been ready for a fight, even if he didn’t want one.

He hadn’t expected them to call him “cool”, or to invite him to sit with them for lunch.

After school they all went down to the park together and laughed when one of the lads pulled a Gideon’s Bible and a lighter out of his backpack, and Simon felt like a coward as he watched the pages burn.

 

Later that month, Simon overheard his mum and dad arguing over whether he should see a doctor, and wondered if he should save them the effort by shooting himself. John’s older brother had a gun, according to rumour. And bullets were faster than pills.

 

That same older brother was responsible for Simon’s first high, though not by choice. John stole a bag of cocaine from him and split it between himself, Simon, and the two other lads who’d come to stay the night.

For the first time in his life, Simon didn’t feel like he was being judged for rambling a mile a minute, or for drumming his fingers on the furniture to give his hands something to do whenever he wasn’t talking. Everyone else was doing pretty much the same thing, and Simon finally felt like he fit in.

He’d draped himself across the sofa, legs sprawled across John’s lap, and grinned when John’s brother came home and started yelling at them all, grinned wider when he and the others were thrown out of the house shortly after. John held his hand and skipped with him down the street, playing at being gay to make the others laugh, and Simon kissed John on the cheek to make the others laugh harder still, though he lost interest in that game when he started marvelling at the softness of John’s skin.

 

The last year of secondary school Simon spent half at home, half on other people’s sofas. Mum would let him know if his dad was furious and it was better to stay away for a few days, and Simon wouldn’t ask what had made his dad angry this time.

Sometimes it was drugs. Sometimes it was the money he borrowed without asking. Once it was the copy of Gay Times magazine stuffed between Simon’s mattress and headboard.

Sometimes his dad just couldn’t bear to see his “miserable mug”, and on those occasions, Simon was happier than ever to stay away.

He wasn’t quite so happy when his mum asked if he was still taking his medication.

 

Simon was nineteen when he stopped sleeping at home.

 

Nobody ever asked Simon if he needed a fix. They would just tell him where to go to get clean, or where to go to get another fix. They saw his twitching fingers, his too distant or too focused stare, and nudged him in whatever direction they saw fit.

Simon liked that in the world he’d fallen into, he was normal.

He’d spend a few days on the streets, then a few on a sofa, paying his way by cleaning dishes and making dinner and getting fucked. Once he got bored of them or they got bored of him he’d be back to the streets, walking from place to place until he found another sofa.

There was a routine to it, and he hadn’t yet aged out of being able to fuck his way into someone’s home.

Sometimes he’d knock on his old front door, and if his mum came to answer it, he’d talk his way into a hot meal and a shower, even washing his clothes if he had enough time.

When he caught her ironing one of his shirts he hugged her, sobbing on her shoulder, and told her he loved her. He promised he’d stay sober for her, get back to normal, get clean.

When he broke that promise, he wouldn’t let himself go home.

 

Simon took his last dose less than two miles from his parents’ place. It wasn’t home anymore. Nowhere was.

He’d settled his head in the lap of the boy he’d been sleeping with for the last week or two, feeling nauseous but not wanting to move in case he started feeling something other than nausea.

He felt empty, and that was a relief in and of itself. There wasn’t anything special about the boy holding him, just a face that might have been beautiful once, and soft skin clinging to thin bones.

Simon closed his eyes, enjoying the emptiness, the feeling of nothing more than rising bile in his throat and a dull warmth throughout his body, and switched off.

 

_"Where am I?"_

 

He never asked to be switched back on.


End file.
